Adrian and Evelyn
For the first time in months, Adrian Vale allowed himself rest.
The weeks following the wedding were a rare season of peace. Evelyn's presence softened his ceaseless urgency; she coaxed him into long walks through the Hartwell gardens, evenings of quiet conversation by the fire, mornings where the world's demands seemed far away.
Adrian still attended council sessions, still debated, still drove reforms forward — but he no longer hurried straight from the chamber to another salon or gathering. When invitations arrived, he declined them. When notes from acquaintances hinted at celebrations or intrigues, he set them aside. His world, once so wide and consuming, had narrowed, and he did not resent it.
With Evelyn, he found balance. She listened when he spoke of politics, but she also reminded him of simpler joys: music in the parlor, poetry read aloud, the scent of roses drifting in through the open windows. She steadied him, as he had always known she would.
And in those months, the memory of Clara Moreau receded into a faint haze, like a candle snuffed out.
---
Crowne and Clara
But Clara had not vanished.
She lingered in the city, her name whispered in theatre circles, her laughter spilling from late-night cafés. For weeks she waited, expecting Adrian to return to her door, to crave again the intoxicating attention she offered. Yet the visits never came. Her frustration grew, until at last she stormed into Sebastian Crowne's townhouse, uninvited.
He was at his desk, quill scratching across parchment when she entered. He glanced up, one brow raised. "You're bold, Miss Moreau. Not all my guests arrive without summons."
"Your quarry ignores me," she snapped, throwing her gloves onto a chair. "You told me he'd come back. He hasn't. He plays the dutiful husband, and I —" she broke off, pacing. "I've been patient, but patience doesn't pay."
Crowne leaned back in his chair, studying her with cool amusement. "Ah. So the great Clara Moreau admits defeat?"
Her eyes flashed. "Hardly. But a hunter must have her prey within reach."
He rose, walking slowly toward her, each step deliberate. "You are not wrong. Adrian Vale basks in domestic bliss, but men like him cannot live long without temptation. He thrives on fire, not calm. Evelyn soothes him now, yes — but soon he will crave the spark again."
Clara tilted her chin, defiance giving way to curiosity. "And you mean for me to be that spark?"
Crowne's smile was thin, predatory. "Precisely. But this time, we draw him back with care. A chance encounter, orchestrated but believable. A spark disguised as fate."
He poured two glasses of wine and handed one to her. Their fingers brushed. "You see, Clara, Adrian Vale's tragedy will not be in choosing you. It will be in being seen with you. By the time he realizes the trap, it will already be too late."
Clara's lips curved, slow and knowing. "You are very sure of yourself, Mr. Crowne."
"Confidence," he murmured, "is the privilege of those who never gamble without loading the dice."
She laughed, low and throaty, and let him draw her closer. For both of them, morality was nothing but a costume discarded after the play.
That night, the alliance between them shifted into something darker. They were no longer merely conspirator and accomplice — they were lovers, bound by mutual appetite and ambition.
And as they tangled together in the flickering light of Crowne's chamber, two unscrupulous hearts found their rhythm: not in love, but in shared cruelty, in the intoxicating pleasure of destruction.
---
In the months ahead, Adrian Vale would continue to believe in his triumphs, in his marriage, in the solidity of his rising star.
But in the shadows of New Albion, a trap was being reset — sharper and deadlier than before.